


Blood and sea salt

by Adara_Rose



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Acceptance, After the Fall, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blood As Lube, Implied Rough Sex, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Love, Murder Husbands, No Lube, Passion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:02:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5025823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adara_Rose/pseuds/Adara_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will's skin tastes like blood and sea salt, like salt-baked salmon with a hint of dill exploding on your tongue just as you bite the inside of your cheek. It is the most exquisite taste Hannibal has ever known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and sea salt

The freezing water knocks all air from Hannibal’s lungs at the impact with the surface, and he can’t breathe as the chilly darkness pulls him down. The only thing keeping him tethered to this reality is the hand desperately gripping his; Will’s hand, calloused and bloody, but warm in his. All around him is darkness, his eyes stinging with the cold but still straining to see in the murky depths, trying to find the surface high above them. He can barely make out anything, but instinct makes his legs kick and fight to reach the surface, pulling the other man with him due to his fingers reflexively locking around the digits clasped in them. The thought of losing Will to this frigid darkness is surprisingly unbearable. He breaks the surface gasping, whimpering, lungs screaming for air, and as he pulls Will to the surface he is irrationally grateful to see life in the wide, frightened eyes looking back at him. Wills body is slippery and wet against his, limp with exhaustion and pain, the water turning even darker with the blood coming from the wounds that the other man has sustained. Will clings to him like a dying man to a piece of wood, exhaustion in every line of his body as Hannibal finds strength he didn’t know he had, swimming towards the shore, dragging them both to safety.

 

They stumble onto the sand, Wills legs giving out on him as he falls forward, slumped in exhaustion from fighting against the currents attempting to drag them out to sea. Hannibal lies next to him, gasping, staring at the dark skies filled with stars, marvelling at the fact that they are both alive, that they made it. Their hands are still clasped, as if afraid to let go, like they have been since they fell over the edge. Will is coughing and spluttering, dark water gushing from his mouth onto the pale sand, darkening with blood. Hannibal tries to sit up, but exhaustion makes him weary and heavy and he sinks back onto the roughness that is the sand digging into his back. His clothes are sticking to his skin, clammy and cold in the Italian night, and for a moment it feels as if they have washed up on the shores of the Styx, her dark waters trying to pull them back in.

 Will, who seems to have regained some of his senses, crawls on all fours over to where he lies and his face obscures the stars.

“Please” he begs, his voice raspy. “Don’t be dead. Please. Hannibal.” Wetness touches Hannibal’s lips, and he realises that even though it tastes of salt it is not sea water. It is tears; Will’s tears. They taste delicious, like salt-baked salmon with a hint of dill. He licks his lips, noting a relieved smile blooming over the gaunt features of the man hovering above him.

“Hannibal” the other sighs, relieved.

 

* * *

 

 

The beach house is a modern creation, all cold white and impersonal chrome, but it is warm and unoccupied. They throw their clothes in haphazard piles on the floor, too exhausted to care where they end up. Will lights a fire as Hannibal searches the kitchen; stomach screaming for sustenance, anything will do in this point of time. A hunger that he has not known since childhood. He finds some crackers and cheese, barely acceptable wine. A simple meal, but a meal none the less. The bathroom gives up dry towels and a first aid kit, and soon a fire is popping in the fireplace.

He lays Will out on the bear skin rug and soft towels, seeing the wounds that scumbag Dolarhyde has caused his… well, what is Will exactly? Not a friend, not an enemy, not a victim. Something else. Something new.

He stitches the wound back together with a skill honed from years of work, neat and elegant. Will turns his face away, staring at the fire, letting him work in silence. After, they drink the wine, eat the cheese and crackers. They are still nude, salt drying on their skin, and yet it is not awkward; they do not look each other in the eyes, but they have never done that. Will uncomfortable to see, Hannibal unwilling to show what truly lay beneath the surface.

There is none of that now, though. Will has seen Hannibal in all his terrible glory and yet he is here, unafraid and unashamed, as God created him. There is only them, the silence, the smell of blood and salt and aged cheese and fine wine. Only the fireplace slowly warming their freezing skin, the rug soft beneath them. Hannibal looks at Will, wanting to taste his flesh but not in the manner he usually wants. No, he does not want to rip or damage or destroy or injure; he wants to lay Will out on the rug like a fine steak on a plate, devour him whole, taste and feel and know him fully. He knows Will's mind, has probed into the depths of the damaged soul hiding beneath those blue eyes. Now he wants to know Will’s body, too. A want he has never known before. He knows plenty about sex, indeed it is a very effective tool of manipulation, and in his youth he experimented with both men and women in various ways and situations. But tonight he wants to know Will, it is not - for once - a way to control and manipulate but something else.

He looks at Will and for once the empath looks back at him, without hesitation or shields. Their eyes meet, monster looking at ruin, and in that moment they are the same. Will’s lips part under his without hesitation, without doubt, without fear.

 He lays the other man out on the rug, covering his body with his own, and as Will's fingers tangle into his hair,. his body rising to meet Hannibal’s in a silent acceptance that does more for him than any words ever could have, Hannibal knows that he might have managed to get into the depths of Will's soul - but the only way of getting there was by giving him his own. He has let Will into the depths of his being - and finally found true acceptance.

Will sees him in his entirety, all the gruesome horrors that lurk in the darkness of Hannibal's’ mind, and yet he does not shun away. Indeed, his hands find their place on Hannibal's back, his shoulders, their mouths clinging together as they move against each other in this dance that is as ancient as time but brand new for the both of them.

 They have no ways of smoothing the way, but still Will parts his thighs and raises his hips invitation; knowing there will be pain and accepting it, inviting it. They press together, move together, in this rhythm that is theirs and Wills cries are both anguished and ecstatic. It is a combination that Hannibal knows he will never tire of, like comfort food from your childhood. He take everything the empath has to offer, whether given or not, this night in the house of strangers. Even when he feels something in the man beneath him tear and rip, the hint of fresh blood filling the air, does he stop. Will just clings to him harder, moaning with tormented pleasure as his legs lock around Hannibal’s waist. This is death and life and passion and despair all at once; the mongoose lying pliant beneath the snake as it devours him.

 Wills nails rake down his back as Hannibal bites his sweaty neck, tasting sea salt, sand, sweat and blood in a combination that is irresistible. It is the most exquisite taste that has ever exploded over Hannibal’s tongue because it means he is alive, he is here. Will’s erection rubs between them, a reassuring hardness that proves that there is pleasure in this for both of them. Not that it would have hindered Hannibal if there hadn’t been; really, it is only an added bonus.

 Will’s keening moans and the way he undulates beneath him is so all-encompassing it takes a few moments before Hannibal realizes that there is a voice somewhere in the vicinity, that it is exasperated and frustrated and just a bit aroused.

 

 “CUT! For fucks sake, I said CUT! We’re shooting a TV show, not porn. GUYS, I SAID CUT!”


End file.
